Florence, at the water's edge by the Ponte Vecchio.
I was alone, with nothing to do but wander in the
at the beautiful architecture and the slow, rippling river with
its gaily-painted bridge. And the beautiful stone rampart
away across the river on the ring of beautifully tree-clad
hills beyond the old city. I also gazed at the sky, which was
beautiful as well, but was too magnificent to name in those
terms. As perhaps the sky always is in Tuscany, it seemed
very close to the base firmament trod by we mortals.
forebodingly dark, would drift and roll across sky's blue
mantle as if, in this place, the turbulent Deity kept a close
eye on that portion of His multiverse.
Florence. Her crowds of shopping tourists, strolling lovers,
and working artists were not in love with me, backpack and
uncombed hair, but nonetheless gave a tithe of themselves
that I returned silently in my heart whilst loitering in the
sunshine, eating ice cream. The best ice cream.
for the work's sake. This I knew because I also painted, but
not well enough to feel threatened by any of these, who
functioned at a level of professional impoverishment for
which all students of fine art secretly yearn and are equally
afraid of, because to be impoverished alone, out in the
world, is much worse than to be impoverished amongst
one's fellow students.
edge, there was one who was better. I watched him
claim an empty space on the stone platform, stool in one
hand and a portentous wooden box in the other. He was
followed by his client, who sat on a wooden folding chair.
leather-jacketed Florentine who seemed as if he should
rather have been playing rugby. From the box he produced
a stand, a lump of gray clay and a set of sculpting knives.
What else? If this guy had to be an artist, only sculpture
would do.
hours with ne'er a stray look. I ate ice cream and watched
the lump of clay become the man on the folding chair. It
almost became him, except the eyes. The eyes are never
the same. No spark of the Progenitor, you see --that whole
Michelangelo's God and Adam thing. Nonetheless, it was
marvelous to be there, stomach full of ice cream, the sun
shining when she felt like it, the old city filled with the life
of the living, and a sculpture that had never been before.
subject, their work complete. Were they content, having
imitated in some small measure the Deity that once
fashioned a man from a lump of clay?